Of Arrows and Oak Trees
by Millefleur
Summary: "The leaves keep falling and only the trees remain." The story of the lost generation of Sherwood- their friends, lovers, families and losses, and the unending battle for justice in which they fought. Finally re-thought and rewritten.
1. Yesterday's Children

**Part 1**

_**14****th**** of July 1189**_

"My Lords, if I may have silence please!" The voice of Ranulph de Commarque, Earl of Lancaster, cut through the cacophony of his son's wedding feast as he pounded on the table with his fist. Almost immediately a hushed stillness descended upon the hall and every eye fixed itself on the speaker. A powerful man does not need to shout often and, with all the customary speeches having finished nearly an hour earlier, all of the guests had quickly realised that the matter he was about to address must be of great importance. The fact that those important nobles who had been of sufficient rank to gain a seat at the top table- the Earls of Derby, Huntingdon and Chester - had just excused themselves from the room, their expressions grave and thoughtful, only made it all the more serious.

Now that he had attained a suitably attentive audience, the Earl cleared his throat and glanced down again at the piece of parchment that the dishevelled messenger had delivered not ten minutes earlier, before resuming his speech. "My Lords. I am afraid that I have just been the recipient of some very serious news and it saddens me to have to relate these events at such a joyous occasion. However, as a loyal servant of the Crown and High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire and the Royal Forests, it is my duty to inform you all that, in the current year of our Lord 1189, on the sixth day of this month, His Royal Highness King Henry of England departed from this life. God save his soul." The Earl folded the letter up as he watched the assembled minor nobles coldly, as if daring them to react before he had finished speaking. When he was content that they were treating the subject with the gravity he thought appropriate, he reached for his goblet and lifted in the air. "Long live King Richard!"

The rest of the hall followed his lead eagerly, more grateful for the indication that he had finished so that they could begin discussing this latest development than supportive of their new King. The old monarch had been someone more respected than liked, but there were few people who weren't aware of the troublesome state of the realm before his accession and, with recent events taken into account, there were many who would be worried about possible discord soon in the future. At the Western end of the hall particularly, the discussion was particularly intense- this was the side where many of the older generation, born in the days of the first King Henry, were seated. Seated amongst several of her old acquaintances (and their less welcome younger relations), the formidable Lady Eleanor of Blyth had already raised the question that most men had been thinking of but had been hesitant in voicing. "Is that correct?" She barked loudly. "Richard is King? I always thought that Henry would name young John Lackland as his heir."

"No, no," Lord William of Nuthall replied, shaking his head confidently. "Henry worked all his life for unity. He'll have made peace with Richard, I'm sure of it. This country won't stand another shipwreck. And sit down Hugh," He added, tugging at the sleeve of his son's tunic as the intoxicated young knight lurched to his feet to propose his sixteenth toast. "King Richard does not need your personal congratulations now."

"Sorry Father."

"You should be."

"Still," Sir John of Maltby broke in, passing the disgraced Hugh the wine flagon again to keep him in line. "Surely Richard is better than Geoffrey would have been. Or, worse, the Young King."

Lady Eleanor's granddaughter, Alys, sighed dreamily. "I liked the Young King. I hear he was very dashing."

"Be quiet Alys." Her grandmother snapped as Sir John, ignoring the exchange, turned to his neighbour, the still sprightly sixty-seven year old Gilbert de Cabourg, who had thus far remained silent, listening to the conversation with mild interest. "You're awfully quiet- I'll wager you've known about this for days, and just like watching us blunder. Come on then, what have we missed?"

Lord Gilbert smiled as his former squire spoke and shook his head. "Not days, friend, I assure you. The news came this morning- the messenger must have rode like a madman to get here. However, he did bring extra information." He paused for effect and took another sip of wine. "This is good, is it from Burgundy?"

The Lord of Nuthall however, was not known for his patience and very quickly interrupted his drinking. "Well? Are you going to enlighten us?"

Lord Gilbert put down his wine goblet and leaned forward. "They say the thing that finished Henry off was seeing John's name at the top of a certain list of men who had changed sides to support his elder brother. And he never forgave Richard- they say that he whispered in his ear at Ballan that he hoped he would not die before he could exact vengeance on his son."

"Who are 'they'?" Sir John asked and his friend shrugged. "Just people."

"England is finished," Lord William grumbled. "Richard would rather be sorting out Aquitaine than governing us. He always was Queen Eleanor's boy through and through."

"Well, he actually seems to have picked up a veritable zeal for going on crusade," Lord Gilbert said thoughtfully. "He took the cross two years ago- I shouldn't wonder that he'll go soon now."

"But why would Lackland change sides?" Asked Lady Eleanor in consternation- crusades did not interest her. "Henry adored him."

"Why does anyone ever change sides?" Lord Gilbert replied. "Perhaps he saw that his father was growing weak and wanted to be on the winning side. Or it may be that he is much closer to Richard than anyone would have thought. Who knows?"

"Poor old King Henry never did have much luck with his sons." Sir John agreed and was just about to go on to relate a humorous anecdote about the late Prince Geoffrey. At this point however, there was a cough from his other side and the group turned to look at the man sitting there. He was a thin man with a well-trimmed dark beard, and was perhaps in his late twenties- probably around half the age of those still engaged in the conversation, Alys having gladly agreed to dance with a young Lord with curly red hair and Hugh having stumbled off somewhere, probably to vomit. Apparently pleased that he had caught their attention, the man spoke in a reserved tone that wasn't much louder than what would be considered a normal whisper. "Now, I don't know if we can really blame Prince John for this tragic family upset. Surely there must be others responsible?"

Lord William looked at him disdainfully. Contradicting his elders like that- the ruddy impertinence of it! He seemed to remember being introduced to the rude young goat as some squire from outside Nottingham- de Wendenal or something similar. He wondered that he hadn't been able to spot such an imbecile at once. Probably never saw a real Royal family upset in his life, not like the one the Lord of Nuthall himself had spent his youth fighting in. He was just about to take the cheeky whippersnapper down a few pegs, when Lady Eleanor beat him to it. "Young man," She addressed de Wendenal, with a gleam in her eye that caused Sir John to wince painfully at the memories it conjured up. "Are you married?"

"No." The victim glanced at the others in amused bewilderment.

"Do you have children?"

"No."

"Have you ever experienced warfare?"

"No, but I was with the Prince in Ireland, where I-"

"So, in short," Lady Eleanor interrupted. "You have very little expertise on the subject. Kindly refrain from correcting your elders."

"But-"

"No more please, sir, my companions and I have much to discuss."

"All I-"

"Thank you very much de Warenne, that will do." She turned away as de Wendenal gaped at her for a moment, before mumbling his excuses and slipping away in a state of some dejection. Lord Gilbert looked after him in guilty amusement before saying in a tone of sympathy. "That was a bit harsh wasn't it Eleanor? He barely said a thing before you bit his head off."

"I don't care," His cousin tossed her head, looking more like the headstrong girl of fifty years ago than the cranky old matriarch of the present. "I'm fed up with youth- all these young knights and maidens aren't anything like we used to be."

"Well, we were young ourselves once. I'm sure we were just as much of a trial to our elders then."

"I wasn't." Grumbled Lord William, but Lord Gilbert ignored him. "They haven't had to fight as we did. It's not their fault- we fought so that they wouldn't have to. Besides," He continued, reclining against the wall and reaching again for his wine. "You're only as old as you feel. My granddaughters are all looking for husbands at the moment, and I plan to be around to see their granddaughters doing the same."

Sir John laughed. "And how do you plan on doing that?"

"Why by keeping in shape!" Lord Gilbert answered, as if offended, prodding his friend's large belly. "And I see that you aren't doing a very good job of it! If I'd known you would get so fond of fine ales, I would never have let you near that inn after I knighted you."

"Speaking of husbands," Lady Eleanor broke in as Sir John swatted at his friend's hand. "I think that Alys may have fallen in love again." She nodded at the red-headed Lord that her granddaughter had been dancing with earlier and was now giggling over with a few other girls from a corner. Lord William squinted at him. "That young Robert of Loxley?" He said, looking unimpressed. "Lord Fitzooth's boy? Heard he was back. Bit dull I always thought. Too political. What on earth do they see in him?"

"Yes and you were always so attractive Will," Lady Eleanor answered sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "I'm sure if you were fifty years younger, they'd all be falling at your feet."

"Is Loxley still without a wife then?" Lord Gilbert asked interestedly. "Perhaps he might consider marrying one of my daughter Elizabeth's girls: they don't have as much money as Matilda's daughters but really-"

"Sorry to disappoint you," Lady Eleanor broke in. "But I'm afraid Lord Fitzwalter's already snapped up Loxley for his eldest girl."

"Ah yes, the Steward," Sir John sat back against the wall next to Lord Gilbert. "It always surprised me that she wasn't married off long ago. Sixteen she is now."

"Well it's not that old. But why do they call her that?"

"What- the Steward?" Sir John shrugged. "Spends all her time helping her father run his estates apparently. Nose in account books."

"Any remarkable talents?"

"She sews," Lady Eleanor chipped in with a snort. "Honestly, what kind of maid wants to sit indoors all day sewing when she could be hunting or hawking? It's not natural."

Lord William made a face that said quite clearly that he considered it very natural for women to be engaged in sewing rather than hunting but did not say so for fear of Lady Eleanor's disgruntled expression. Instead he exclaimed. "Then what on earth does he see in her? Didn't he spend the last five years as one of our new King's retainers? Surely there were women at court he could have married."

"I thought you didn't like him?" Lady Eleanor said, raising an eyebrow, as Sir Gilbert asked. "Is that her over there next to Fitzwalter? Not spectacularly beautiful either. Plain by the looks of things- it's always the plain wives that nag the most." He finished with a shudder before assuming a humble expression in the face of Lady Eleanor's scowl. Sir John shook his head grinning. "Now for once, I know something Gilbert doesn't. Loxley stands to inherit all of Fitzwalter's lands if he weds her."

There was an outburst of surprise from the other three as Lord William spat in outrage. "Why isn't he splitting equally?! That's bloody unfair!"

"Oh stop worrying- I'm sure Fitzwalter will still provide for the other girl if you ever convince him to marry her to that walking wine-barrel you call a son," Lady Eleanor snapped. "It's obvious isn't it? You said earlier that King Henry strove all his life for unity. Fitzwalter's the same- he hasn't spent most of his life accumulating all that land just for it to be split in two. Why else do you think he's been training up the eldest? The younger sister will get a fair dowry, but Fitzwalter probably thinks she's too wild to inherit any more. Marion always was her father's favourite."

"Well I still think it's bloody unfair." Lord William growled. "Why should Loxley get everything? He hasn't even won any tournaments- just archery contests. Archery I tell you! Is he a mere yeoman? And with money like that he's bound to get stupid. His father was. Saying that all his serfs should be free- they wouldn't do any work if they were. They're looked after better the old way. And Loxley's just like him- he always was too political and-"

"You've already said that Will," Sir John told him exhaustedly. "No, I'm rather fond of Loxley- bit too law-abiding to be truly good company but I think he's alright really. Pretty harmless I should think. Sturdy as the oak and all that. The two of them will probably settle down to producing fifteen children and living a quiet prudent life Lord Fitzwalter himself would be proud of. I don't think they're much of a threat to your lands Will."

"That's it then is it?" Lady Eleanor said. "We must have done our work properly back when we were young. They had better thank us for it."

"I'm sure they will Eleanor," Lord Gilbert poured himself another goblet of wine and raised it again in toast. "Here's to Robert of Loxley and his lovely Maiden Marion! I hope they enjoy peace and happiness for the rest of their days."

_**A.N. Hi! Ok, so I know this wasn't the most riveting and exciting opening ever but I'm trying to put things in context and I promise it will get better. It's also my first Robin Hood story, so I'm still getting used to the framework. All historical characters mentioned here are given a characterisation that works with the story- I am not for a moment suggesting that they were anything like that in real life. Also if I have borrowed titles that haven't come into existence by the time in which the story is set, or given characters lands that would have belonged to others, then it is again for the purpose of making the story flow better. Now I've finished soothing my guilty historical accuracy obsessed conscience, I hope you enjoy!**_


	2. Summer's End

**12th of September 1191**

Summer had lingered long that year and the road from Bramcote was a picture of the things that make that season so particularly pleasing to the senses. Bees, butterflies and many other varieties of insect zipped busily through the warm air, the foxgloves rising at the roadside were clustered together in bright white and purple crowds, as if cheering travellers on as they passed, and the River Erewash wound its way along beside the path, its shallow waters trickling almost lazily downstream. The trees had also put on their best early autumn gold and swayed gently in the light breeze that was the one saving grace on an otherwise swelteringly hot day. Under one of these trees, a tall sycamore which marked a fork in the road, a figure was resting his legs and his eyes, his mantle flung carelessly over his face in an attempt to keep out the heat.

The sight of this peacefully slumbering villein was not something that the average passer-by would be particularly surprised by- it was a very warm afternoon and he was far from home, as the badge sewn on to the breast of his cote-hardie attested to. What would have perhaps drawn more curious looks if there had been anyone making their way along the road however, would have been the sight of that same finely-dressed nobleman, whose arms the sleeping retainer wore, easing off the latter's short boots and filling them to the tops with water from the nearby river, having tied his palfrey to a tree and discarded his habitual longbow and quiver on the grass.

When Lord William of Nuthall claimed over two years before that Sir Robert of Loxley, Lord of Beauvale, had no sense of humour, he had been mistaken. Robin, as he had been named in the cradle to distinguish him from his father, might have been more likely to let others take the lead in any hi-jinks of the sort that Lord William may have indulged in during his youth, but if there was one thing never passed up an opportunity to do, it was play a practical joke on his closest friend William Scathlock.

It was this unfortunate who was currently sprawled beneath the sycamore tree, blissfully unaware of his friend's less than honourable intentions. As the son of Robin's old nurse, and now his head groom, the two boys had grown up together, brothers from the day they could walk. The two had many similarities- such as a love of the hunt, an interest in horse-flesh, generally good humour and a deep concern for the welfare of others- but they were by no means the same. Robin was the thinker, intelligent though not necessarily prudent, and his brains often got him into more trouble than ignorance. Will meanwhile, often didn't have time to think before making decisions- he was quick to anger and even quicker to laugh, surly to those who offended him and often painfully blunt. This same established relationship existed in many other things too and, in many ways, despite Robin's superior social rank, it would seem to outsiders that it was actually Will who was the leader of the duo- though really, it was much simpler than that. Robin planned and Will executed, in jests, fights and matters of administration alike and, although Robin was careful not to offend older and wiser retainers, Will was held in high esteem in his household.

Having filled the boots and placed them next to his snoring friend, Robin strode over to his palfrey and produced a skin of water from the saddle-bags. He then lightly crept back over to his friend and slowly pulled the mantle from his face. Loosening the stopper of the skin, he then proceeded to let the water trickle out and spatter onto Will's face. For a moment, the other man screwed his face up, eyes still closed, before he spluttered loudly and sat bolt upright, cursing as his friend sniggered. "Hell's fire- Robin!"

"I was helping you stay cool!"

"Helping? I'll give you- wait, how long have I been asleep?" He scowled groggily at the sun, noting that since he had lain down it had long since passed midday. Then, glancing around he seemed to notice something and groaned. "I _knew_ he'd leave. And I nearly had him too." Noticing Robin's look of confusion, he elaborated. "Edward of Nottingham. He owes me money- I'd intended to bring it up with you."

"Ah yes, about that," Robin grinned as he held out a hand to help him up. "Edward is currently enjoying himself in Beeston Inn- he says he's very sorry that he had to go but he was parched and he didn't think that anyone as gullible as you should be trusted with money anyway. He said he'd greet Marjory for you though."

"What?" Will's look of defeated indignation expressed everything. "And I thought she was beginning to get fond of me."

"Believe me, Will. Marjory will _never_ be fond of you."

Will mumbled something inaudible (and probably very rude, Robin guessed) as he picked up his mantle and reached for his boots. Robin took a deep breath in anticipation but was forced to let it out again when Will turned back to face him curiously. "What took you so long anyway? I thought you were just going to settle final terms with old Fitzwalter?"

"I was, but the sister decided that I should talk to Marion before the wedding as well. She seems to think she can push us together."

"Ah, my fellow matchmaker!" Will grinned at him. "I see we're of a similar mind- you and Marion need to start working together on this. What did you talk about? The roses in her cheeks? Her hair of spun gold?"

"All this business with Longchamp mostly. She was a bit reserved about it, but what do you expect from someone whose uncles fought on different sides of the same war to make sure that at least one of them kept his estates-"

He broke off, noticing his friend's inexplicably pitying expression as he shook his head. "Politics?" He asked, as if deciding whether to laugh or be scornful.

Robin nodded. Will, on the other hand, sighed exasperatedly. "We've been through this before Rob. You don't talk about politics with your future wife on the last time you see her before her father deposits her at the altar next to you. You want the girl to like you at least, not think you're crazy! I don't mean to offend you here old friend but some of your political ideas- admirable though they are, and I entirely agree with them- are apt to get a rich fiancé a bit worried, and old Fitzwalter even more so!"

"She was very good about it," Robin argued defensively. "It made things less awkward." It hadn't, in truth. Marion was clever, that much was clear, but had rarely spoken her mind, replying only cautiously and without committing too much either way. He was sorry to have to admit that in all their other meetings he had barely paid any attention to her, but then she hadn't been exactly forthcoming either. If anything trying to have a debate with her had made things more awkward.

"I think they'll probably have made things an awful lot more awkward if she's lying awake tonight worrying that you'll spend her dowry on sending serfs to Oxford rather than new gowns. And I hope you didn't say that about her uncles in front of Fitzwalter."

"Who are you to talk?" Robin countered, mildly amused at the strength of his friend's reaction. "Weren't you the one who told that girl in Kimberley that you thought her sister was prettier and it turned out to be her mother?

"She didn't have a dowry half the size of the Royal treasury."

Robin frowned, unsure as whether to be offended by this remark or not. He had always hated it when people cared more for money than living things but he had thought that Will was aware of that. Was that what people were saying about the match? "You don't think that's why I'm marrying her do you?" He asked anxiously.

"Course not," His companion answered for his boots again. "You're too stupidly decent to take advantage of that. Just saying that that might be how Fitzwalter sees it and you don't want to him to get cold feet about it, do you?"

"What like you?" Robin smirked pointedly as Will stepped into one the boots with a loud squelch and a groan of disgust. He laughed as he dodged the spray of water from the other boot that his friend aimed at him in annoyance. "Watch it! That nearly hit my bow and I might need it!

"Who cares? You'll be shooting with a different kind of arrow tomorrow night."

Robin flushed. Will meanwhile, seeing that he had hit a sore spot, made a face at him, clearly going out of his way to be antagonistic. "Ah lighten up a bit, I'm sure she'll be very kind if you miss."

"I ought to hit you for that."

"Ah, the youth of today. So dedicated in their pursuit of a pure soul, that they miss out on all the joys of the world. It's quite touching really." Will stopped affecting a paternal air as he noticed the way his friend was eyeing the longbow lying on the grass. "Alright, alright, not another word. What were we talking about before?"

"I was going to say," Robin continued as he picked up the bow and slung the quiver over his shoulder. "That Lord Fitzwalter knows exactly what he's getting from this arrangement."

"I know what you'll be getting," Will mumbled amidst suppressed sniggers but, as he saw Robin's tired look, held up his hands and assumed a sombre expression. "Fine, sorry. Fitzwalter you said? Ah yes, let me try and guess what _he_ thinks he's going to get. A word in King Richard's ear about that village he's had his eyes on? A place at court for the other girl? Come on, what was it he wanted?"

"You know I'm not close enough to the King for that. Though I won't deny Lord Fitzwalter has his hopes." Robin patted his palfrey's nose as he untied the reins from a small hawthorn. "No, I don't think I've really promised him all that much. The real thing, for him, was that Marion be allowed maximum control over both dowry and inheritance which I have no problem with. He was very interested in my great-uncle Henry for some reason-"

"Because he's an Earl probably. Fitzwalter's grandfather was a wool merchant you know, or so Thomas says."

"-and there was some business about tithes but I can't really remember what it was. Why are you so interested anyway? This has been in place for nearly two years and you've not said a word."

"Shouldn't I be interested in the welfare of my friends? I just didn't think we'd ever get to this stage- I mean, you're not exactly a dream are you? What with those chicken legs and- oh bloody-"

The loud oath that Will swore as Robin pushed him down the embankment into the river was not a pretty sound.

* * *

The journey home took several hours, and by the time the two were leaving Kimberley on the road to the small village of Ottermill, the sun was already sinking low in the sky, sending blinding rays of lights through the golden leaves, and the light breeze of a few hours earlier had turned cold and unfriendly. His boots having finally dried out, Will had long since returned to teasing his friend about his upcoming nuptials, something which Robin, who had dismounted again to walk alongside him, was growing ever more impatient with. Eventually he broke in during a particularly rude imitation of how his future son would behave and snapped. "Alright, I'm marrying Lord Fitzwalter's seneschal. I know. Do you think I'm entirely happy about it?"

Will looked puzzled. It was clear that he had never really thought of his friend's opinion on the match. "If you're not happy with it, then what's _your_ reasons for marrying her? Why didn't you choose Alys de Patrice or one of those daughters Reginald de Blois kept pushing at you?"

"De Wendenal's had his eyes on the Fitzwalter estates for the last year," Robin explained tiredly, wondering when they would reach Ottermill. The road seemed longer than usual tonight. "Alys de Patrice's grandmother already detests him enough not to side with him and one of the de Blois girls is already married to one of his household knights. Lord Fitzwalter's views, however, are rather less certain. If our estates are joined, it might be that between us we can suppress him for a while. And with the position of sheriff vacant, we might even have a chance of petitioning for a candidate who can actually do the job before he snaps up that position too. You remember how Ottermill tried to bring that petition against him to de Commarque last year?"

Will nodded. The meteoric rise of William de Wendenal's influence in the area over the last two years had worried many landowners, mostly due to their own personal fears about borders, but there were also tales of harsh cruelties being enacted under his orders both on his own demesne and the Crown estates over which he had been made governor. From what could be gathered from the rumours, it seemed that he had some benefactor in a high place- some people favoured the Archbishop of York as a likely candidate- and that benefactor would stop at nothing to place his own men in the North. Will could see just why the prospect of his gaining even more land would worry Robin, especially considering the increasing violence of the petty feud that had developed on the borders of the two men's estates, both Robin and de Wendenal seemingly having hated each other from the moment they had first set eyes on each other. And of course the bad feeling was not helped by the fact that Robin was good friends with the priest of Ottermill, whose flock unfortunately happened to reside on the lands de Wendenal had been given- the same land they were currently crossing.

Despite this however, he could not resist having a further dig at Robin's marital prospects. "Yes, I see that. But I still think Alys de Patrice would have been a very good choice in the looks department-"

"Would you please stop mentioning Alys de Patrice?" Robin grimaced, as he glanced back down the road, vaguely wondering if he had taken a wrong turn somewhere. "I still remember that laugh of hers. Why do some girls _giggle_ so-" He broke off suddenly and sniffed the air suspiciously. "Can you smell peat?"

Will copied his actions and nodded. "Probably just the Ottermill smith. I hear he often works late."

"The smith?" Robin echoed in confusion. "We're not in Ottermill yet. The chapel-" He stopped, staring several yards ahead, in consternation. He could have sworn that those hawthorns had once marked the entrance to the small building he had been searching for. Will followed his gaze asking "What?" again before suddenly catching on to what he was staring at and swearing loudly. "By Satan, it was there this morning! What happened?"

He ran forward to the spot as Robin slung the reins of his palfrey over a nearby hawthorn, giving it a pat on the nose absent-mindedly. By the time he caught up Will was already crouching down on a patch of blackened grass, examining the remnants of charred wall that had collapsed into the undergrowth. The entire area was littered with pieces of burnt debris from the walls and roof, and the remains of one last heavily scorched wooden pew lay smoking weakly underneath a pile of leather-bound records, most of the pages missing or ripped. Reaching out to touch the smoking end of the pew with his finger, Robin quickly drew back in pain and turned to Will. "Still hot. This can't have been done more than a few hours ago."

"The communion silver's gone," His friend was now busy searching the area around the remains of the font- the only stone in the entire building- and had picked up the half-burnt wooden cross that had stood on the now utterly destroyed altar. "Do you think whoever did this took it or did that old drunk priest bring it away with him?"

Robin shook his head angrily. "This place belonged to Lenton Priory. Nobody would dare destroy it without their knowledge. They've probably been offered a new one unless-" He paused suddenly as everything clicked into place. "Unless they wouldn't need one here anymore."

Will looked up at him frowning. "Why wouldn't they?"

"We were just talking about it! The petition- the one the people of Ottermill sent to Lancaster last year, just before he stepped down as sheriff. The one complaining about unfair taxation." He explained, straightening up and making for his horse again. Will followed, still confused. "There was nothing he could do about that though. Nothing happened that should have worried de Wendenal."

"Maybe," Robin slung himself into the saddle, too pre-occupied with the matter at hand to remember that his friend was without a mount. "But do you think he wants them around to make trouble for him with whomever the new Sheriff will be?" With that, he urged the palfrey into a canter, leaving Will to sprint after him, the altar cross slipping from his fingers as he ran.

* * *

_**A.N. Yes, so my apologies for the length and excessive detail of this. Trying to clear up the stuff I've already written is often harder than starting afresh.**_


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